


Seventeen and a Quarter

by AnInternationalReputation



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Mentalist
Genre: Assumed Relationship, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Crossover Pairings, Gay Sex, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Stuffing, Tight Clothing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnInternationalReputation/pseuds/AnInternationalReputation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock and Jane move in together, Jane starts eating properly for the first time in years, and putting on weight as a result. Sherlock (of course) notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen and a Quarter

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to D (aka pensive), my Jane consultant and enabler.

Jane takes cat naps. It's a holdover from years of erratic sleep patterns and light, dreamless nights. As habits go, the only drawback is the temporary loss of the sofa whenever he elects to have a lie-down. He's still a light sleeper: at a second's notice, Sherlock could always have him up again.

It's fortunate for both of them that Sherlock keeps multiple dressing gowns, or the temporary loss of that might have been a drawback as well. Jane's chosen the blue one this time, wrapped it around himself and laid back with his hands threaded together over his chest and the belt tied around his waist.

Sherlock passes through the room on his way to get a book, and glances at Jane on the way. It's a quick glance, but long enough to take note of the way his robe drapes over Jane's frame.

Six. They're up to six.

 

* * *

 

Jane's clothes used to hang off of him. Not drastically, but in a way that would signal to any keen observer that he was undernourished. Obsession did that to a person, had a way of depleting their resources.

But Red John has been dealt with. With the burden lifted from his spirit and a new workload that chiefly taxes his mind, Jane is living healthier. He cooks for himself and Sherlock because he enjoys it. _Food is necessity and indulgence all in one,_ he says. Here and there a meal might be skipped when there's too much work to do, but he always did have a way of grabbing snacks on the go - often from clients' houses. There's plenty of activity and plenty of opportunities to fuel himself for it.

Sherlock observes the changes over time as a broadening of Jane's shoulders, a slight accumulation around his face, a thickening on the sides of his waist, until he no longer looks like his shirts are a quarter-size too large.

Up to nine now.

 

* * *

 

Jane used to wear waistcoats.

The thought occurs quite out of the blue one day while Sherlock is staring into his microscope, one of those stray threads of thought that snags and refuses to leave as quickly as it appeared. He plucks it from its mental sticking point and brushes it away, re-hones his focus on his work.

The thought returns after a moment or two, this time with some straggling followers. Jane used to wear waistcoats. He doesn't anymore. They're up to twelve, enough that despite all their running around London, Jane is starting to gather some softness around his stomach and lower abdomen. Easy to imagine what it would look like if he put on one of those old three-piece suits. Sherlock can picture how the fabric would be pulled tight at the sides and pucker at the front, the buttons tugged off-centre in the holes.

Unsettling. Irrelevant. Sherlock sighs through his nostrils, shifting his shoulders and hips in a second attempt to recalibrate, and feels an unexpected friction against the inside of his trousers. His mouth and forehead pull into a frown as he settles. Really? _Now?_

 

* * *

 

This is not something Sherlock can recall finding distracting before. It still doesn't seem to apply to anyone other than Jane. He won't analyze it too closely - there are always more important things to think about. Besides, the moments of distraction are fleeting.

But they do begin to add up, and there's a point at which Sherlock can no longer tell himself that it's about monitoring Jane's health. The way Jane's midsection bulges over his trousers when he sits. All the little noises he makes while he eats, hums and sighs that are only a tonal shift away from being sexual. One day they're out at a scene, Sherlock is right in the middle of an analysis, when he notices that he can make out the curve of Jane's belly under his untucked shirt, and the record needle on his brain skitters. He actually hears himself stop talking for a half-second.

 _Problem_ , he thinks. But so is knowing what to do about it without drawing too much attention to it.

 

* * *

 

It's becoming more than occasional by Sherlock's standards. A few times a month, once a week, twice - even with the two of them being involved as they are. Sex, after all, takes  _time,_ and involves more facets than physical release.Masturbation is a matter of efficiency. Something to get out of the way when the body asserts itself too aggressively.

At least he no longer has to struggle with what to think about. There are variations, and sometimes logic will trip him up by reminding him of what isn't realistic. Sometimes he'll hit a thought that's an immediate turn-off and have to take a mental step back, adjust. But given enough time, his ideal fantasy starts to take shape.

Hypothetical scenario: Jane eats too much, to the point where he's groaning from a bellyache. He undoes his trousers and lifts his shirt to put a hand on the tight, round dome of his abdomen. Sherlock imagines sitting behind him, running his fingers through the curls of Jane's hair, massaging Jane's scalp, soothing. He imagines Jane soothing himself, rubbing his hand downward over his stomach to the place where his belly meets his thighs, and then-

Sherlock almost never gets to the  _and then_  before it's time to clean up the bathroom tile.

  

* * *

 

They're somewhere in the neighbourhood of fifteen now. Individual pounds become more difficult to track the more the number rises. Sherlock is at his laptop, doing his weekly round-up of flights in and out of London, when Jane breezes into the sitting room and announces that Lestrade has a case for them.

Sherlock picks up his phone, checks for a text or a call, finds nothing.

"He texted  _you_?"

Jane's by the door already, pulling on his jacket. "Don't get jealous. He wants both of us. Messy stuff, from the sound of it. We're heading down to Bermondsey."

That's good enough for Sherlock. He rises from the sofa to grab his coat. That gives them a brief moment standing by the door - which is when Jane speaks up again.

"By the way, it's seventeen and a quarter."

Sherlock loops his scarf around his neck. "What is?"

"Seventeen and a quarter pounds - give or take. That's how much I've put on since I moved in." Jane pats the side of his waist, and Sherlock keeps that action in his peripheral vision, because he doesn't need to be thinking about that now. "I know you've been counting."

Sherlock wrinkles the bridge of his nose. It's not unlike Jane to bring up irrelevant things when they're engaged in something else, but really, they have somewhere to be. "Jane, this isn't the time-"

Jane shrugs a shoulder. "Well, it turns you on. There's no shame in that."

God's sakes. "I'm not _ashamed._ "

"Then you should've said something. I don't mind. I like to excite you. You should know that by now."

Sherlock presses his lips together. Caught out. And it's never enough for Jane to know something. He needs to hear it, too.

So, he thinks, cop to it and move on.

"I do."

Jane smiles his wide, warm smile as he pulls open the door. "Good." He starts to step through. Sherlock breathes an internal sigh of relief and moves to follow him, but then Jane turns back. Index finger held up. _One more thing._

"But just so you know, I'm at one-eighty-two now, and if I hit one-ninety I'm capping it there. Don't wanna push it too far with the cholesterol." He gives a couple of taps to his own chest, right over his heart. "Plus, you don't want me slowing down. There's a delicate balance to maintain here." He turns around again, not expecting a response, and Sherlock is more than content not to give him one, to consider the matter finished.

Only Jane gets past the door, and looks back one more time.

"Oh, and Lestrade never texted. There's no case. I'm gonna be upstairs." For the amount his eyes are twinkling when he slips toward the stairs, he might as well have winked.

For a long moment, Sherlock is fixed to the spot.  _Damn it, Patrick._

But it only takes so long for curiosity to win out. Sherlock paces back across the room, discards his coat and scarf, and makes his way up to Jane's room. The door's ajar, open enough that all he needs to do is push.

There's shopping stacked all over the top of Jane's dresser. Boxes of pasta, bundles of produce, packages of biscuits and crisps, containers of ice cream, a six-pack of beer. Jane is unloading the last of it from a paper sack. He doesn't turn around just yet, but obviously he heard Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs, heard the door open, because he starts in talking.

"The one thing I couldn't work out is how much the type of food matters." He glances over his shoulder, holds up a package of biscuits. "I mean, I'll gorge myself on Oreos if that's what gets you hot and bothered, but I won't be looking forward to the sugar crash."

And there it is: the sense that he's being mocked more than encouraged. Sherlock stays where he is, keeping one hand on the door jamb, and his tone is warning and wary. "Patrick-"

Jane's still grinning away, which does not help the sense of mocking. "What?"

"If this is just about getting me to  _admit_ it-"

"No, no. It's not." The grin's fallen away now. Jane crosses the room until he's standing right in front of Sherlock, leaning to establish eye contact. "Hey. I wanna do this for you. Okay?"

Jane cups Sherlock's jaw, turns his head. The kiss is soft with parted lips, and as it progresses, Jane reaches for one of Sherlock's hands. He lays it on one of his love handles, encouraging Sherlock to squeeze. It sinks in, then, just what Jane is offering, and Sherlock needs another moment to pull himself together before he breaks the kiss.

"Pack that all up. Bring it downstairs."

 

* * *

 

It's not about Oreos. He wants Jane to eat what he enjoys - so they relocate to the kitchen, and Jane cooks. Pasta with fresh sauce, one of his specialities. Sherlock keeps himself as busy as he can with other things in the meantime, stealing occasional anticipatory glances - especially after Jane settles down to his meal.

Jane makes the sounds on purpose now - if he wasn't doing so before. Which, on second thought, he certainly would have done. Would have started doing it at the first inkling he'd had of Sherlock's arousal, to begin testing it. Sherlock wonders how far back that goes. Knowing Jane, it could have been as early as the day Sherlock was thinking about waistcoats.

The effort not to touch himself becomes a matter of iron will the more time passes and Jane's sounds become tenser. Still, Sherlock practices patience - this has to be perfect. He waits until Jane is close to finished, downing the last of his second beer, before heading into the kitchen. He stands by the table, hands in his pockets, looking down at Jane.

"All right?"

" _Mmph._ " Jane sets down the beer bottle next to the emptied pasta and ice cream bowls. "Just don't think I could swallow another bite." He looks up, with a smile that manages to be both goofy and enticing. "Wanna see?"

Sherlock can see already. Jane looks sedated by the amount he's ingested, and he's sitting with his legs farther apart than usual to accommodate his fullness. But Sherlock nods, quick and silent, and Jane sits back with an exhale. The chair creaks, and Sherlock feels his cheeks flush -  _God, take it easy, they always do that_.

Jane's shirt, which was loose months ago, is tight across his waist. He reaches underneath to work his trouser fastenings. The button opens with a softly audible _pop_ , the top of the zipper unzips an inch of its own accord before Jane has to tug the rest of it down. The next sigh is  _relief_ , and Jane looks up at Sherlock again. Sherlock knows he's looking for signs of approval, and the knowledge that his observation is in turn being observed makes him swallow from a flare of nervous adrenaline, but otherwise he stays perfectly still.

That seems to be enough, as Jane stops staring and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt from the bottom up. A small triangle of flesh is visible as soon as the fabric starts to part, then a larger one, then the crater of his belly button and the curve of his lower abdomen toward his hips. Sherlock hears a rushing in his ears and realizes it's the sound of his own breath. Can't stand still anymore: he takes a chair and spins it to land behind Jane's, while his other hand reaches out to thread its fingers into Jane's hair. Jane's eyes close, a silent approval of his own.

Sherlock sits behind Jane, massages his scalp with both hands, watches over a shoulder as Jane continues to work, until his shirt is open entirely. Jane lays a hand on the protruding slope of his stomach. Sherlock tugs and twines his fingers through Jane's curls, leans forward until his breath is falling on Jane's neck. Jane turns his head, reaching for a kiss, and Sherlock obliges.

Eyes closed in the midst of the kiss, Sherlock feels Jane's shoulders shift. One hand finds its way to Sherlock's hair, with the other, he's started to rub his aching belly. A few quiet moans hum their way through Jane's mouth into Sherlock's before Sherlock breaks the kiss. He wants to  _see_ again.

His hands start roaming downward to massage Jane's shoulders, then to tease at his nipples until they harden. He kisses Jane's neck and under Jane's ear as his hands work farther downward. His left hand cups the curve of Jane's belly, his thumb toying with the navel, while his right slides into Jane's open trousers to find that Jane is at least as excited as he is by  _some_ aspect of this.

He climbs under the table to suck Jane off. Wraps his fingers and lips around Jane's erection with more enthusiasm than he ever has. Braces himself with his other hand against the leg of the chair, against Jane's leg. The floor is unyielding under his knees, but it doesn't matter. Sherlock sucks until Jane comes with a groan, until sticky-sweet heat hits the back of Sherlock's tongue and he swallows. He pulls away from Jane's length struggling to get his breath under control, so hard that his groin is sore. He crawls up from under the table, and Jane is leaning forward to kiss him.

There's a clatter behind him. Jane's pushing bowls and beer bottles out of the way, and now there's a hand guiding Sherlock to stand, hands instructing him to sit on the edge of the table. Jane pulls his chair closer to the table and works open Sherlock's trousers - his turn now. He takes Sherlock slow and deep, humming when he's taken in all he can before pulling back.

One-eighty-two to one-ninety. Eight pounds to go. They'll only be able to do this so many more times before Jane puts a cap on it. They'll want to keep it as infrequent as possible, so it can be savoured...

But Sherlock's going to want it. Dream about it, ache for it.

 _A delicate balance,_ he reminds himself just before he feels Jane's tongue flex, Jane hums again, and coherent thought becomes impossible.


End file.
